


Depths

by ritsuko



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Amnesia, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Childhood Memories, Come Marking, Come Swallowing, Dominance, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Food, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Morphine, Nightmares, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, On the Run, Past Rape/Non-con, Porn Magazines, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, Rescue, Self-Hatred, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritsuko/pseuds/ritsuko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumlow receives a visitor in the hospital. To his surprise, this one seems to give a shit about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [DEPTHS 深渊之蛇](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3723367) by [luzinha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luzinha/pseuds/luzinha)



If order comes from pain, then everything must be perfect in Brock's world. The first sensation upon waking up is staggering tremors of hurt throughout his entire being. Each wave more painful than the last. He grits his teeth, trying his hardest to hold back any whimper of pain, but it's too much, cracked lips oozing and his whole body on fire even in traction.

He should be dead. 

The thought makes him realize that once word gets back to HYDRA that he's alive, he will be. HYDRA doesn't take well to failures. 

The worst part is knowing they'll come and he'll be unarmed, unable to prolong the inevitable.

He's not sure how many times he goes in and out of consciousness. Every single time he wakes, there's a new nurse in his room, gently patting the pillow by his head, murmuring words of encouragement.

Brock wants to tell them all to fuck off.

At one point, he wakes to the soft glow of the television, blearily trying to read it as it cycles through the news. He can see images of the damage done to DC, the destroyed Triskelion and debris of the Helicarriers in the Potomac.

It's crazy to even think they pulled him from that wreckage. Only from the news does he know that Pierce is dead. He wonders about Rollins, about the rest of the STRIKE team.

He wonders about the asset.

The bastard was probably back at another facility, being wiped and stored to continue being HYDRA's resident murder machine. You didn't just throw seventy years of brainwashing and training down the shitter. 

If he's even survived. 

But knowing what a nostalgic sap Rogers is, if it had come down to a fight between the two of them, the asset will destroy the blonde.

At least, that's what he thinks until he sees Steve on TMZ leaving a hospital after weeks of recovery. Brock barks out a laugh. Nothing could bring that fucker down. He doesn't know if he's awed or infuriated by his own limitations.

He presses the nurse call button, in hopes of more morphine. 

In his sad state, it's not hard to achieve.

The days pass until he starts to feel antsy, welcomes the flood of drugs through his system so he doesn't have to worry about when he's going to be eliminated. He's so fucking tired; he's had enough blood and pain to last three lifetimes. 

So when he sees the asset standing like the angel of death at the foot of his bed in the middle of the night staring down at him, it's no surprise. He's probably going to die, but at least he'll meet that fate head on.

"Where the hell have you been?" He snaps, mind still foggy from the meds. It's probably not a good idea to be snapping at the other man, but at this point he doesn't even care anymore. The bastard's going to kill him, he might as well not take his sweet fucking time about it. 

The asset just stares at him, silent and ominous. Brock notes that he's not in his tactical gear; instead wearing what looks to be jeans and a jacket, a baseball cap covering his lanky hair. Almost normal. Of course he'd wear civvies for this. You couldn't just tromp into the burn victims unit looking like a leather clad murder machine. He almost looks human, a shadow of growout on his cheeks, those stormy blue eyes focused solely on him. The asset's always been beautiful, but it's almost unfair how good he looks right now.

Especially when Brock looks like shit.

He's still so long, it's almost as if he's turned to stone, and Brock snorts. "What the fuck do you want? Orders?" He laughs, lungs burning from talking so much. The asset only cocks his head.

"I want. . ." he starts, before licking his lips. Brock is almost spooked by the range of emotion in the two syllables. Loss. Confusion. Hurt. Fear? "My name is Bucky Barnes?"

It's a question. Brock quirks an eyebrow at him. "Hunh. If you've figured that out, why the hell are you here? Shouldn't you be off with your bestie? Or are you just tying up loose ends?" He snarls the last.

The asset looks confused, brow furrowed. "I don't. . . want to go back."

He's not sure if the asset means to Rogers or HYDRA. Brock almost laughs. It's the most emotion he's ever heard come from the assets lips, save for heated moans. He snickers. "Well, then what the fuck are you doing here, dumbass? HYDRA's probably watching this building-"

"Negative." Coldness seeps into his voice and Brock stares pointedly at him, knowing instantly what that means. If there have been any agents, he's killed and disposed of them all. Pretty impressive that he's able to resist any control words that they would most likely try to use on him.

Control words. Of course. The morphine's making him too sluggish, and he realizes that's the answer to keep himself safe. Just order the asset to kill anyone that's going to harm him. He smiles grimly.

"Well, whatever. Why the hell would you come back to me?"

Something flickers over the asset's features that's hard to read. "You. . ." For a moment, the other man looks unsure, biting his lip as if worried he'll be punished. Brock huffs in irritation.

The machine at his bedside makes a beep, alerting him that he's getting another dose of painkillers.

"Well, c'mon, spit it out. I'll be out like a fucking light in a couple minutes anyways." He grumbles, and the asset nods curtly.

"You gave me a candy bar."

Brock doesn't think that he heard right, the statement so fucking weird that seeing the asset say it is mind boggling. He's starting to wonder if all this isn't a dream brought on by the morphine. "What?" He slurs, and the asset takes another step closer. He can hear the soft whirring of the plates of his arm underneath his jacket as he rests it on the bed.

"It was against regulation. We were in Syria, bunkered down. You looked at me and told me to have a treat. Then we had sex." The asset's voice is smooth, even, and Brock squints at him in the dimness, trying to see his face. That incident happened more than five years ago.

"So? So what? You've been fucked a lot of times. By a lot of people. Just 'cause I gave you a fucking Snickers doesn't mean anything." He grunts out, body starting to feel like molasses.

"Chicago. 2002. You gave me some pizza. Shanghai, 1999, Chinese food. Belfast, 1992. You gave me ice cream. We watched a movie on a television that the color kept going out on." The asset speaks slowly. Brock's mouth starts to go dry, shock coursing through his system.

The asset can fucking remember.

He takes another step closer until he is towering directly over him, face still obscured in shadow. 

"I had to feed you. We were gone too long those times to get you back to-"

"There were MRE's." He states firmly. "You told me on more than one occasion you didn't want to eat that shit."

Brock's throat feels dry. How could the asset be remembering these things, unless being out of the chair too long was making him remember all of his most recent memories first?

The asset presses on. "When it was with the others, you were horrible. Violent, cruel. You went out of your way to hurt me. But when it was just me and you. . ." He tapers off, and he can see the glint of those steely eyes watching him. Brock swallows harshly. "You were gentle with me. You acted like. . ."

The room feels like it's spinning, as if his whole world is unfurling. 

Yeah, maybe he did treat the asset nice when it was just the two of them, fed him things he wasn't allowed to eat and let him sleep next to him in bed, his own body curled protectively around the brunette. Let him watch TV, noting how the asset's eyes took everything in hungrily, the stimuli intoxicating. Watched as tears pricked his eyes one Thanksgiving when they were in a Dallas hotel room waiting for the time to make a proper hit on a senator. He'd almost turned 'The Wizard of Oz' off, except for the look on the asset's face.

Sad, and nostalgic.

Judy Garland skipped down that golden road, and the asset almost started to speak then, to say something before he caught himself, realizing his error. A weapon didn't speak unless asked a direct question.

Brock had always wondered what he'd wanted to say.

Those eyes implore him now, with an emotion that seems akin to concern. It shocks him; no one ever cares about Brock Rumlow. In HYDRA, it was every man for himself. Before that, he'd never opened up to anyone after years of shitty foster homes and bouncing around schools. The asset's hand reaches out and strokes his cheek, and he realizes he's been reading it all wrong.

It's not concern; it's caring. 

He wants to laugh with how fucked up it all is. The living weapon had feelings, and for him. It seems like some giant ass joke, like Pierce is going to pop in from the corridor and put a bullet in his head after telling him how fucked up this little daydream is. 

No one has ever cared about him, and no one ever will. 

"I acted like what, exactly? Like I wanted to make sure the prize pet of HYDRA stayed complacent? Like I just wanted to make sure you didn't act up while we were away on a mission?" The venom that seeps from his voice is terrible, almost as toxic to him as it is the brunette. He thinks that maybe, if he's malicious enough, he just might believe it himself. "Might come as a surprise to you, but you sure were a lot more eager to take a cock when you'd been buttered up."

Grimly, he watches the asset's face fall. There's a twinge in his chest to see the hurt cross a face that's rarely ever registered emotion at all. 

"You only cared about fucking me?" He asks dully, and he can see those eyes start to go blank, not in a post mind wipe kind of way, but more in a loss of all hope way.

Brock bites the inside of his lip. Since he became the asset's handler, he was the only constant thing in his life. Something to actually give a shit about.

Now, maybe the best thing he can do for the poor bastard is this. A chance to get free.

"What else is there?" he grits out, poison flowing from his lips freely. The asset's face collapses, until there is nothing but the cold impassive face of the killer left. He stares darkly at him until Brock squirms under the scrutiny. "Look, you want someone to go all goo goo on you and tell you some sappy bullshit like they could love something like you, you should go to Rogers. You put that asshole in the hospital and I'm pretty sure he's still over the moon for you. For whatever reason."

The asset takes a step back. "I'm. . . his friend?" He asks, voice questioning.

"Yeah, whatever. Like a million years ago. Go to him. He might actually give a shit about you."

He seems to consider. Then he turns. Brock's eyelids start to droop, the morphine coursing pleasantly through his system. He's almost out when he hears the asset whisper.

". . . you're a really shitty liar, Rumlow."

He can't even respond, sleep taking him into its depths.


	2. Chapter 2

_Belfast, 1992_

_"No dumbass, not like that. Jesus, haven't you ever fucking eaten ice cream before?"_

_Rumlow curses as another drip of vanilla smears down the front of the asset's tactical gear. The asset flinches slightly, he always does when reprimanded after a mission. During, he never falters. But when it's over, he acts just like a whipped dog._

_It rankles. Rumlow would never admit it out loud, but the way they treat the soldier is shit. He includes himself in that 'they', because there's no real way of denying the peer pressure of 'lets fuck with the asset' and coming out of it as less than a pussy._

_If there's anything that HYDRA owes the asset, it's a little bit of respect, not feeding tubes and regular beatings._

_But then, he hasn't worked with the man for long. It took him four years busting his ass to even be considered to be a handler, and even then he hadn't known what he was training for. Definitely not for being the caretaker of a lethal weapon that is catatonic most of the time._

_But babysitting the asset is a breeze; he never complains, never falters. Follows orders to a T._

_Fucker still doesn't understand that ice cream goes in your mouth._

_Rumlow stops fucking with the rabbit ears on the television. It's not like anything is on anyways. Just shitty reruns of Doctor Who and World News. He's spent hours already watching it with disinterest; the car bombing that the asset had pulled off had gone off without a hitch and no one was the wiser that it had been caused by anything but civil unrest._

_He'd been bored as fuck, holed up for three days with the other man who barely even blinked. Rumlow felt like he was going nuts. They could have at least left him with someone who was home upstairs half the time. So he'd given the asset orders not to leave the room and took to the streets. After a couple of pints and a stop at the corner store under their rented flat, he'd come back with a stack of nudie mags, chips (assholes called them 'crisps' here) and a couple Cornettos which seemed to pretty much be as crappy as Nutty Buddys (which didn't really matter as drunk as he was). He'd even let the asset choose between chocolate and raspberry (he didn't actually choose at all, his gaze had just lingered longer on the red one)._

_Still, he doesn't understand how he can get more of the damn cone in his mouth than the asset. The other man looks slightly lost with it melting in his hands, and Rumlow groans. "C'mon, jesus. Do you not see what I'm doing?" He swipes his tongue around his own ice cream, catching any drips. The asset doesn't exactly frown, but he looks as if he doesn't understand this type of mission. "What? What the fuck is your problem? Last time I buy you shit."_

_"It is inadvisable." the asset speaks so low that Brock almost thinks he's hearing things. "Mission parameters indicate that I am only supposed to ingest-"_

_"Oh for fucks sake. It's ice cream, not nuclear waste. It's not going to hurt you. Plus, I'm tired of eating that shit." He forks over a napkin, hoping he won't have to order the other man to wipe the dribbles from his chin._

_He doesn't have to. The asset attacks the cone with a new vigor, doing a much better job of keeping it in his mouth. Rumlow crunches into his half stale cone, wishing he had another Guinness. There'll probably be hell to pay if the higherups find out he was drinking on this mission, but it seems like he would have been more suspicious not drinking in this fucking town._

_At least he can tell himself that._

_He flops down into a tattered old armchair, grabbing one of the mags. Chick on the cover's not exactly his type, but she's a good starter. Besides, if he needs anything else, there's always the asset. His gaze flicks up again and he groans._

_The raspberry red around the other man's mouth looks like blood and he swallows. "C'mon, you're getting it all over yourself again." He admonishes, coming over to hand him another napkin. The asset merely brings the cone to his mouth again, staring docilely at him. At first, Brock doesn't understand the red mess in the vanilla cone. It's dripping wet, pulsing softly._

_He gasps._

_No air comes out, watching in horror as the asset swipes his tongue around the organ in his cone, blood tacky on his chin. A heart, a fucking-_

_Looking down, he's shocked to see the bloody, open cavity on his chest. His fingers dart up, pressing into the hole and raspberry syrup oozes out. His eyes lock onto the asset's again, as the other man bites into that pulpy mass-_

~

Brock jolts awake, gasping for air. What had started as a memory had turned into a nightmare far too quickly. The rest of that night hadn't been that eventful; he'd made the asset go wash his face while he'd jerked off quickly. Back in those days, it had still been too new to take full advantage of the man. He sighs, the tickle of a cough working through his throat. 

"Hello, Brock."

Rumlow stiffens in his bed. His eyes dart up to the shadows. He knows the voice, but there's no way in hell that it's going to mean anything good for him. 

"Dominick."

Crawford steps into the glow of the television screen, and Brock is a little bit jealous that the other man doesn't look as shitty as he feels. There's only a few visible bandages. But the bald man is mostly unscathed.

But then, a fucking building probably hadn't fallen on him.

"I'm guessing you're not here to give me a candygram."

"Nope." The man affirms, malice in his smile. "You know what I'm here for."

For a moment, Brock feels naked, no gun, no stun batons to lash out with. He's going to die, in a fucking hospital bed, barely able to move. There's a beep from the machine by his head signalling another dose of morphine. His eyes droop. Maybe it won't hurt.

That pisses him off, the thought that he's weak enough that he wants to fore-go pain. His lips curl back in a sneer. "Pretty pussy of you. Taking out a guy who can't even fight back."

"You've done worse."

He has. The comment doesn't even sting, but he wants to be able to lash out, draw blood. Anything that will keep him alive for even another hour.

"Orders are orders."

"Tell that to Pierce. Oh wait, fucker's dead. They're not happy about that, you know. He was supposed to get those pieces of shit in the air."

Brock shrugs, trying to keep a wince out of the movement. "Shit happens."

"Ain't that the truth."

He watches Dom raise his glock, wondering just how hard it will be to jump out of the bed and shield himself somehow. Brock won't plead for his life, he's watched it before icing other agents. Weaker agents. He'd rather die with his dignity.

"Did anyone else live?" He asks plainly. Crawford's smile just gets uglier.

"In STRIKE? Oh no. Hell no. Whoever didn't die in the fight got hunted down. Shoulda seen Rollins. He made it to Mexico before he bit it. Brains everywhere."

Rumlow's stomach lurches. Sure, Jack had been an asshole, but he'd been an easy guy to work with, probably the closest thing that he could call a friend. The whole team gone. It had been his. That small group had been some of the only people in the world he'd ever trusted having his back to. He closes his eyes, exhaling sharply.

"So you came after me last?"

"You weren't going anywhere."

True.

"Well, we gonna chat all night or are you gonna get to it. Because if not, there's a new episode of American Pickers-"

The click of the gun being cocked is his answer. This is it then. He opens his eyes, jaw set firmly. He'll at least look death in the face.

There's the slight sound of something hitting the window, but Brock doesn't let his gaze slip. Crawford's sprawled across his bed before he even really knows what's happening. The telltale red stain that starts to soak through his blanket does though. The morphine hasn't kicked in enough yet to make him lethargic, and his head whips up to the window. 

Plenty of vantage points from buildings. Any one of them could hold a sniper. 

But why would anyone be waiting out there to gun down a HYDRA agent? Brock doubted the remnants of SHIELD were just floating around, keeping an eye on whoever might come his way. But then again, that would be a pretty great tactic.

Blood starts to congeal on the thin blanket and his lip curls. How the fuck is he even supposed to deal with this?

But then, the asset is there, slipping through the window like a fucking ghost. The drugs have made him bold, even as he slurs. "What the fuck? What am I supposed to do now? SHIELD's gonna be all over my ass, dipshit!"

Steel blue eyes flash at him, a spark of anger before fading to neutral. "SHIELD already knows you're here. As does HYDRA. They'll want to move you now."

Rumlow swears under his breath. Just great. Next it'll be a high security room, then jail. If he's not executed.

He barely registers the asset unhooking his IV bag and tossing it onto his chest. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Not answering, the man continues, unhooking him from machines. Then, he hooks an arm underneath his knees, the metal arm strong and supportive against his back. Brock blinks in confusion.

"Godammit, what are you-"

"Your location has been compromised. You have to leave." The brunette cocks an eyebrow at him. "Unless you want to wait for another hit?"

Brock pauses, face failing to register his confusion. He doesn't want to die. He doesn't want anything to do with either organization anymore. For the first time in his life, he just wants to be his own boss. 

Throat parched, he swallows, noting the asset's slight move to the window. ". . . why are you doing this?"

There's no answer. James Buchanan Barnes just smiles grimly before jumping out the window with him cradled in his arms, wind whipping past in their descent.

_Crazy. This is fucking crazy._

That must be why it feels so right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TUMBLR!](http://ritsuko-chan.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

_San Diego, 1977_

Blood drips down his face. Even at twelve years old, he feels satisfied by it. After all, the shit who'd stolen his bike was at the hospital with a broken arm.

It had taken him almost a year to be able to afford the piece of shit, considering an absent dad and a drunk mother didn't really get you far in the way of allowance. He hadn't minded mowing lawns and helping out at the mechanics shop around the corner, even if all he did for them was hand them tools and change oil pans. Even so, roughing up kids for their lunch money had also played a small part.

It isn't a pretty bike by any means, a hunk of junk when he'd bought it and now barely working thanks to one of the mechanics at the shop. 

But it's his, and no fucking upper middle class turd is going to bully him out of it. 

He pedals hard, barely managing to avoid a speeding car as he wheels up to the side of the dilapidated house that he and his mom live in. The bike falls to the ground and he tromps through the door, screen bouncing in his wake. After dropping his backpack in the hallway and making his way to the fridge, he sneers in disgust. Nothing but a half empty bottle of mustard, some moldy oranges and a styrofoam container of week old Chinese food.

Oh, and beer. Plenty of beers. Mom demanded it.

He pops open a Schlitz and makes his way to his room. For all he knows, his moms out with one of her abusive boyfriends getting wasted. Later he'd go to Giovanni's and see if he couldn't snag himself a slice of pizza for dinner.

That might include stealing.

But for now, he can relax. Slowly, he slips his hand between the mattress and the floor, digging. He smiles when he feels the telltale fold of paper, and pulls the magazine out.

The chick on the cover has wild hair, huge tits. The lettering makes it impossible to see more, but he wants to know what's inside. 

He wipes his bloody nose with the back of his sleeve, tentative to be careful with this piece of treasure. Everyone tells him he's too young to be thinking about these things, but he can't help it. He'd seen the mag in the can at the mechanics shop and had to squirrel it away. He has to see the inside. 

It had taken days to be home alone, and he's going to fully utilize that time. Shakily, he takes another sip from the beer before settling on his bed. 

Slowly, he licks his lips, opening the mag, and he stops breathing.

He's never seen anything like it.

The girl is blonde, curly hair in disarray. A wild thatch of hair grows between her legs, and her eyes beckon invitingly from the page. He's always known girls were different, he's not a fucking idiot. But something about the way is posed, spread eagled, everything she's offering sets off a flutter in his abdomen. He stares awhile, then takes another swig of beer and turns the page.

Brock's heart nearly stops, because the next picture is the girl on her knees, a man's dick in her hand, eyes half lidded and tongue a fraction of an inch from making contact.

He can't help but stare, it's hot. Those manicured hands wrapped gently around that hard, thick veined cock. . . he's not sure what's hotter in the picture. Though he'd never admit it.

His pants have gotten tighter, and he swallows. He's jerked off before, he's known about that sort of stuff for years. But he's never had anything to look at while he did it. With a grin, he unzips his fly. No one will be home for hours anyway.

Curious, he flips the page, and his blood runs cold. Something isn't right.

The girl is gone, replaced by a brunette man on his knees. There are too many men around him to count. One is behind him, reaching around to stroke the man off. Strangely, he has a metal arm, but it doesn't seem too weird to him. The brunette has a man on each side, their cocks in his hands, and another in front, cock coming close to his mouth. There are white streaks on the man's torso, his eyes lidded and body taut.

It's the hottest thing he's ever seen.

Quickly, he pulls himself out, but something's different, his body is larger and his hands calloused and he's a lot hairier but he doesn't care, he just wants this now-

The picture moves, the man bouncing up and down on the cock behind him, jacking the men in his hands, and the dick in front of his face is accepted into his mouth. Those eyes turn baleful and pleading as his mouth is brutally fucked. But those eyes. . .

It's as if they're watching him through the page, and only him.

He catches a glance of the face behind the brunette, older with piercing brown eyes and a five o'clock shadow. A roguish grin. 

The man comes hard and the brunette cries out, muffled by the dick in his mouth, only to have to swallow that man's load. The others erupt in his hands, spraying him in white. 

It's so hot, that he almost loses it right there. 

But the cock in the brunette's mouth slips out, leaving a trail of spit and semen, and those steel blue eyes accuse him. 

"You're not fooling anyone." He states coolly. Brock can't respond. The magazine blows up in his hands, But it doesn't end, there's fire, and pain and shit crashing down on him, a whole fucking helicarrier-

~~~~~

Rumlow's body pitches through the air and his eyes snap open. He's in a car of some sort, headlights peering into misty fog. From what he can see and feel, they're driving down some dirt road, and the asset is hitting every fucking pothole along the way.

Everything fucking HURTS.

Still spooked by the dream, he stares wide eyed at their surroundings. 

He groans, blinking rapidly trying to blink the fog away, but it feels like every inch of his flesh is burning, overly sensitive.

Suddenly, the other man is pushing something into his mouth and bringing a bottle of water to his lips. He sputters, but a firm hand assures that he swallows.

"What the fuck?"

"You need more pain killer."

"Yeah, no shit!" He grumbles, body aching.

The asset looks at him from the corner of his eye. "We'll be to the safe-house soon."

Brock looks at him for a moment, not comprehending. Then he laughs.

"There are no fucking safe-houses we can get to! You don't think that HYDRA is going to have people looking all over for stragglers in those places? Not to mention SHIELD, with all the fucking data leaks! You should have just left me in the fucking hospital, at least I'd have some morphine when I died!"

The asset doesn't take his eyes off the road, but smiles bitterly. "We're going to a place that no one in HYDRA knows about. There were only two people that knew about this place, and one of them is dead."

For a moment, Brock wonders if the man is going to take him out in the middle of nowhere and torture him to death. God knows he's done enough to deserve it.

There's silence for awhile until Barnes pulls off the freeway to fill up the gas. It's strange, Brock muses, watching the other man go into the store looking nonchalant and buying a bag full of things. He even whistles on his way back to the car, filling the tank up. When he finally gets back in and starts it up, he passes the bag to Brock, who just stares.

"I got some snacks. Eat whatever, just give me the V8." Barnes states as he pulls back onto the freeway. Brock opens the bag, noting that half the shit from the candy aisle must be there. There are Snickers and Milky Ways, Reese's Pieces and potato chips, even a bag of old timey Mary Janes. Brock's lip curls. There's even a couple of cokes, the V8 and a full bottle of aspirin.

Asshole couldn't get some fucking beers? 

"Are you even fucking real?" He asks, eying the man. The distance between them seems so far, like he's seeing the man that used to be a weapon for the first time.

Bucky smiles darkly, after a swig of tomato juice. "I've been wondering that myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TUMBLR!](http://ritsuko-chan.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

_BOSTON, 1995_

There are a lot of men. More than he thinks could ever be on the special ops team. But then it's not the first time this has ever happened. He never remembers all the details, just has vague impressions of the things that have happened before. The things that are expected of him. Missions. What comes afterwards.

The asset breathes wetly, eyes beseeching. He'll be good, he'll be so good, if they just don't hurt him.

It never works out that way.

He never knows why this is his reward, just that he is supposed to take it all without complaint. Usually, he gets the impression that it's easier to just shut down, let it happen. But for some reason, right now he can't. That numb acceptance just won't come to him. 

Most of them jeer at him, slap him and pull his hair and laugh as they dirty him up. It makes him feel hollow, ashamed. 

There's something wrong with that. He's not supposed to feel anything. It always seems like the longer he's out of cryo, the more he starts to have these inklings. Makes him long for kind touches, soft kisses. Tenderness. Things that he can't ever remember receiving.

There are so many men circling, some spent, some stroking themselves as they wait their turn, that their faces all bleed into one another. Except for one. 

One of the men keeps staring at him, mouth firmly set in an unreadable expression. He seems familiar, that black hair in a military precise crew cut, young face already lined with determination and hardship. Those brown eyes watch him, and he can't decipher what lingers in the depths. Perhaps they've worked together, this was one of his handlers at some point. 

He thinks he remembers ice cream.

The man behind him finishes and he grunts as his insides are coated with a burst of come. He winces, but other than that, makes no move to do anything, just stays stock still as the other man pulls out of him and wipes his slimy cock on his ass. A couple of the men laugh, call out names like 'slut' and 'whore' and while he knows they're supposed to be insults, they just don't register. They don't matter.

But those brown eyes keep staring at him, some emotion veiled tightly in their gaze. 

Another man roughly pushes into him, and he exhales slightly, eyes still on the young man. Something dark crosses his face, but then another man steps into his line of vision, cock hard in front of his face. The man is hardly the pinnacle of hygiene, he smells terrible and there looks like there's something wrong with his dick.

The asset frowns, just a slight downturn of lips before he catches himself. He has to do it, has to do anything that he is told. A weapon does not have preferences. A weapon cannot say no. Exhaling his irritation softly, he opens his mouth and leans forward.

Before his lips can wrap around the length in front of him, the man is pushed out of the way, and the young man with the intense brown eyes in front of him.

"Jenkins, you motherfucker, you don't get to put your herpes in his mouth, you piece of shit! None of the rest of us want your goddamn dickwarts!" He snarls, pushing him to the side. It looks like a fight might break out until another man, a superior that has already used the asset once, cuffs the man upside the head, and starts yelling at him. He slinks into the shadows, and the rhythm picks up behind him, the man in his ass picking up the pace. He closes his eyes, hoping he will be done soon.

A rough hand makes contact with his skin, thumb brushing softly against his jawbone. "You." The man with the brown eyes rasps, voice like sandpaper. "You're gonna pleasure me, got it?"

It isn't like he has a choice, but for some reason, he prefers this man. He blinks his assent, mouth opening wide, tongue lolling out in complete submission. The man grins, softness wrapped in steel. He fists his hand in the asset's hair, firm but gentle, and pulls him to his crotch.

The second skin meets his tongue, he's grateful that the man seems to understand the concept of bathing. He smells good, not like the rough disinfectant that they wash the asset with when they scrub him with cold water. He smells like pine and trees, just a hint of nicotine. Much better than some of the men that have used his mouth over the years. 

His lips close over the other man's head and he flicks his tongue out experimentally, tonguing his slit. He earns a soft rumble of approval the other man's fist in his hair tightening slightly. Authoritative, but not painful.

The assets lips inch downwards, tongue lapping against the fat vein on the underside of the other man's cock, until his nose is nestled in the other man's pubic hair. He moves to pull off, but the other man holds him firmly in place. He looks up into those dark eyes, and sees something cross them. Need? Possession? 

It's a lot better look than when the secretary wears it.

He relaxes, trying to keep his throat from convulsing around the length. It's a power play, he knows it. So he docilely sits and awaits orders, the only movement the man still working over his ass, slightly pushing him against the black haired man with each stroke. 

Whatever the other man sees in his eyes, he must like it, because his grip lessens. That's the moment the soldier attacks. 

Humming and sucking until there is drool dripping down his chin, he plunges himself down on that cock repeatedly, and the man makes a strangled noise over him, both hands carding through his hair softly. It's a shock. He's far more gentle than most would be.

The instant the salt tang of come hits his tongue, he knows he's fulfilled his mission. The man jerks his hips, and he milks out all of his release, swallowing obediently, even as the man behind him comes. But that doesn't matter, his eyes are only on the man above him.

They share a look, and even with the taste of the other man's come thick in his mouth, he wants it to mean something. Almost.

"Get the fuck out of the way, Rumlow. Jesus Christ, you don't fucking get to hog that mouth!" Someone pushes the black haired man, and that softening cock slips from his lips. Rumlow growls, eye contact broken as he rounds on the other man.

It almost seems that the two are going to fight, but Rumlow sneers and backs off. After all, he's gotten what he wanted. For a moment, the asset almost feels disappointed. As if there was some connection to the man.

But how could there be?

The next agent kneels in front of him, cock dripping inches from his lips.

Rumlow turns away. There's nothing he can do anyway.

The asset resigns himself to the rest of his 'reward'.

~~~~~~~~~

Hours pass, and it's been a few since he turned off the headlights, traveling by nothing but the light of the moon. He can see well enough in the dark, and it will make it easier to keep HYDRA off of their tracks if they can't be seen.

By the time he makes it to the correct gravel road in the darkness, it's nearly sunrise. It's not the best option, by the time they arrive the sun will be up, and they'll be exposed. But from the way Rumlow keeps moaning in his sleep, he knows that he has to get to the safehouse as quickly as possible.

Moving the man hadn't been the best option, but it was the only one open to him at the time. He can only hope that Brock will survive once they run out of morphine. He's sure that he could keep him alive, but less sure that the man won't just pray for death.

He tries to ease around every pothole in the road, hoping that each jarring moment that knocks his teeth together won't hurt Rumlow even more.

He doesn't even know why he cares so much.

Rumlow's probably right, he should have just left him to die. But there's doubt wriggling in the back of his brain, the worry that the blonde man with the piercing blue eyes that sometimes came to him in flashes of memory would hate him, want him gone. He couldn't remember a single full memory about Steve Rogers, only that he knew he was important to whoever he had been. 

He'd snuck to the hospital he was in one night, an ordeal as the last of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s ops had been guarding him like gold. After managing to sneak to a window, he could see the dark skinned man from the helicarrier sitting and watching over him. It made something in his heart ache, the thought that someone else was watching over the sick man. But he'd brushed it off. Rogers was injured, not sick. Why would he feel that way anyhow?

It takes a trip to the Smithsonian to make him realize that whoever Bucky Barnes was, it isn't him. At least, that isn't who he was any longer. 

Sepia toned footage of Rogers and a man wearing his face, smiling and laughing. The look that they share. It's intimate. It's unsettling.

He has to get away.

When he turns, he sees the display of uniforms as he turns to leave, and his blood runs cold, a blue button over jacket on display underneath a picture of the man he used to be.

But that's not what he sees.

_. . . blood everywhere, blue cloth being cut from his body. His arm, shredded and the white gleam of bone-_

_Pain._

_And screaming. . . so much screaming. . ._ He'd lurched from the room, aware of the eyes on him, knowing just how stupid he had been to chance going out in public. As he made his escape, pace harried, his eyes had darted furtively about, unsure if at any moment anyone HYDRA would pop out of the crowd and try to kill him. Emphasis on the 'try'.

After that, going to Rumlow had been the obvious choice. The man was the only one who actually knew anything about him. As sadistic as he was, Brock has been the only one to ever show him any kind of kindness.

Even though those moments have been few and far between.

He breathes a sigh of relief as he sees the cabin in the distance, but all the same parks a distance away. There is little chance that anyone knows about this place. He isn't even supposed to remember it, but thankfully, that had slipped through the cracks of his brainwashing. Glancing at Brock, he considers. The man is out cold, will be more of a hindrance to him than anything. Still, he rummages under his floor board and pulls out a Glock, setting it in the other man's hand, trusting that Rumlow can take care of himself.

Then he's in the woods like a ghost. He moves in a spiral, tightening his surveillance as he gets closer to the cabin, checking for anything that would indicate anyone had found this place, even though he doubts it. Pierce had always boasted the secrecy of this place, how no one knew about it and therefore couldn't know the things that he did here. Now he's dead, and the soldier is the only one who remembers this place. Thankfully. By the time that he makes it to the back porch, he sneaks up to the door and picks the key up from underneath a ceramic frog. He'd always thought that was too easy.

The inside of the cabin is as he remembered it, if a little dusty. He suppresses a shudder, noxious memories trying to burst to the surface of his consciousness. Idly he flicks them away, focusing on this new mission. 

_Pierce is dead. None of that will happen again._

It's hard to keep from his mind as he slips through the halls, searching for bugs and disturbed dust. Especially when every surface holds terrifying memories. As he walks past the kitchenette, he sees a small dog dish on the floor, and he shudders. 

_Dead. He's dead. Even the news said so._

But an affiliation with HYDRA makes it hard to believe. He couldn't infiltrate the funeral to confirm; it would have been too dangerous. The thought of a closed casket makes him nervous, but at the same time, the dregs of S.H.I.E.L.D. had made sure to keep the remains under lock and key.

It would take a miracle for the secretary to be alive.

He is thorough in his search, far more thorough than he needs to be, all things considered. As far as the cabin looks, no one had been here since the last time he had. Satisfied, he goes back to the car.

Rumlow is still sleeping, pain etched across his prone form. He takes the gun back, before turning the car on and pulling up closer to the house. He'll ditch it later somewhere in the woods, but for now, he needs to carry Brock the least distance possible. He gets out and stalks to the passenger side. The instant his arms wrap around him to pick him out of the car, there is a painful moan, far more intense than he had thought it would be. He stiffens for a moment, as Brock's body goes slack in his arms, face screwed up in pain.

He's in way over his head. It doesn't matter, he can't stop now. As delicately as he possibly can, he lifts the other man out of the car and makes his way up the cabin's front steps, through the living room and into the back bedroom. Here the memories are stronger. He stares at the man in his arms, trying to focus. It was no use to think about the past. Delicately, he lays the other man on the bed, taking care to pull up an old afghan over him. The soldier isn't sure what to do next. So he waits.

It doesn't take long for the other man to wake, after all it's been hours since he had any morphine. With an uncharacteristic whimper, Rumlow's eyes flutter open, brown and clouded. It takes him a long while to focus, but when he does, those eyes barely recognize him. Suddenly, they focus, and his brow furrows.

"Where the fuck are we?" He rasps, eyes darting around the room.

"Safe."

Those chocolate eyes meet his own, even as he snorts in indignation. The soldier understands. Most places aren't safe.

Rumlow must like what he sees in his eyes, because he nods. "Alright, safe then. What now?"

He doesn't know. He's gotten them this far, and he just doesn't know. Suddenly, Rumlow's gaze upon him is too much to bear, and he breaks the gaze, looking away. Why had he thought this was a good idea again? What was it that he thought Rumlow would do for him? If anything, the other man is going to try and take control of him again, be his handler. He doesn't think he will succumb to any more orders, but there's no real way of knowing. He's beginning to feel like all of this was a mistake, like he should have escaped when he'd gotten the chance. 

Even if it means being alone.

"Gotta go secure the perimeter." He mumbles, rising hurriedly. His feet thud dully against the wooden floorboards as he escapes from the room. He can hear Rumlow calling after him, but he has to get away. It's foolish, stupid that he feels so scared of the man when Rumlow can barely even move on his own. In the other room, his breathing turns wet and thick, and he stops.

_Stubborn blue eyes. Cough medicine._

_"I can do it on my own, Bucky."_

_Late nights filled with worry._

_He'd needed someone to take care of him._

He pauses, emotions warring within him. Rumlow needs him. Whether he'll try to use him or not, he needs him. For the time being, they are all the other has. Besides, he's been the one to take Brock out of the hospital. He's the one that thinks there might actually be something more to Brock Rumlow.

Plus, there is the thought in the back of his brain that wonders what Steve Rogers would think. 

In the end, that wins out. He rummages through a cupboard to find old bottled water, and is pleased that there is still enough food stocked in the place to survive a war. Perhaps that had been Pierce's true reason for this place; somewhere to survive if things ever went badly on either end.

Steeling his resolve, he grabs a couple of cups of applesauce and the water. He'll take care of Rumlow, but he sure as hell won't let the man use him.

He hopes.


	5. Chapter 5

Things had gone wrong. No one knew how Rogers, Romanoff and the other guy running with them had gotten away, but one tazed guard assured them they had a mole of some sort. Someone that could infiltrate a SHIELD vehicle. Rumlow frowns, thinking of several members of Fury's lapdogs that could have done the task.

Brock follows Pierce closely into the vault, fully knowing just how quickly this could go south. He's never seen the soldier lash out at the older man, but there was a first time for everything. Just like there had been a genuine tone of panic to Rollin's voice when he'd called in the asset's behavior. No one else would have caught it but Brock. 

They enter the vault, Pierce ignoring warnings and having the agents inside stand down with a wave of his hands. The vault door clicks ominously as it locks them inside, even though there's close to fifteen men in the room. Everyone's on edge.

Except Pierce.

Even more worrisome is the asset, staring in shock at nothing as his mind tries to work around what has just happened. It's like watching a piece of machinery trying to gain momentum through years of disuse and rust. A machine that defies a direct order for a mission report to try and piece back together his humanity.

"Mission report." Pierce states calmly. The asset just stares blankly, and the older man repeats himself.

Still nothing.

Pierce gets irritated, walks the several steps to the other man's chair and slaps him roughly across the face. 

The asset doesn't even respond to the pain, just slightly comes out of his reverie with a confused look. Then the impossible happens.

He asks a question. "The man on the bridge. Who was he?"

Not a person in the room dares to breathe, to draw attention to themselves. The asset never asks questions. He only obeys.

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." Pierce states, tone final, as if that should be enough.

It's not.

"I knew him."

Pierce pulls up a stool, and Brock can see his face in profile, already knows that the wheels are turning to cover up the damage done. He tells a pretty little speech about all the good that the Winter Soldier has done, what a gift he is. It makes Brock feel sick. Intently, he stares at the soldier. 

'Just do what he says. He won't hurt you if you do what he says.' He thinks, already seeing the route this is taking. Brock embraces pain, feeds off it. But the asset, it's rough seeing him like a whipped dog.

Pierce finishes, and the soldier looks around the room, looking at, but not quite looking at his handler. Brock stops breathing for a moment.

"But I knew him."

Even as those forlorn words slip past the Winter Soldier's lips, Brock's heart sinks. He sounds like a little kid, scared to be challenging 'dad', but knowing he's being lied to. It's a miracle he keeps his own face from betraying any emotion, especially when Pierce looks back at him.

Brock shrugs.

The soldier's scared, it's obvious. His eyes seek out only one man in the room, and Rumlow doesn't even dare to move. That he'd look to him out of everyone else in the room is all at once awe inspiring, and heart breaking.

There's nothing that he can do, but the asset doesn't know that.

As far as the man in the chair knows, Brock could try and reason with Pierce. Not that he ever would. Not even for his own life. It would be pointless.

At asset screams, and screams as the machine does its work, and Brock can hear it rattling through his ears as surely as if he himself were screaming-

"Wake up."

It's the asset's voice, but he's too busy screaming. Or is it Brock in that chair now, STRIKE leader Agent Barnes standing over him next to Pierce and a handful of fearful techs? Is he the one screaming as pain rips through his brain, breaking him and making him new? 

Maybe he's going mad.

"Brock Rumlow. Wake up. Now." There's command in that tone, even unsure as the words are spoken, and it's only then he realizes he's been dreaming again.

Fucking Morphine.

Actually, probably a fucking lack of morphine. He groans, eyes flicking open with an uncharacteristic whimper. For all of the pain he's gone through already, this is ten times worse. He reaches up to rub at his eyes, because they itch so fucking bad he's practically seeing stars.

The soldier catches his hand. 

"No. You'll scratch it raw."

Brock casts him a baleful glance, but listens. Besides, it's just pain. He can handle it. Not that he knows where to start. His whole body itches so bad he wants to peel back the skin for some relief. With a firm set of his jaw, he lifts an eyebrow at the other man, waiting for his hand to be relinquished. The asset glances at him a second before slowly letting him go.

The soldier busies himself shaking a pill bottle into his open hand delicately, as if one wrong move could crush the medicine. Hell, it probably could. Brock might actually be impressed if he didn't recognize the small caplets of oxycodone that come towards him on an outstretched metal hand.

"Are you fucking kidding me? This is all you fucking have?!" Brock's incredulous, but the asset doesn't even wince, just keeps watching him, hand outstretched with the pills. Finally, the older man sighs and accepts them and a proffered bottle of water. "Thanks, kid."

The brunette lets out a half-hearted chuckle, and Brock watches him suspiciously, suddenly wondering if the pill he's just swallowed is poison. But then, why would the asset drag him out in the middle of nowhere to kill him?

He can think of a few reasons. Revenge for all the shit the other man's gone through first and foremost.

The other man ducks his head and looks away. "You know, I guess I'm old enough to be your grandfather. So calling me 'kid' is just a little strange."

"Always called you kid before."

Fierce blue eyes gaze solemnly at him. "Yeah, and it wasn't like I could tell you no."

There's a moment of silence between the two that shifts into slightly awkward, but Brock won't let it show on his face. He stays neutral, challenging the other man with it. There must be more of the Winter Soldier still within Bucky Barnes, because he looks away first. 

As sickening as it is, Brock's glad for it. It means he still might have some semblance of control, a way to keep the asset from destroying him. Because really it is only a matter of time before the other man snaps. 

Seventy years of shit would do that to a man.

But that might be the only thing keeping the asset from ripping his spine out. Though that might be a mercy compared to the pain he'll probably go through. Especially if they only have fucking oxycodone.

"So. Why did you kidnap me?"

"Really, are we calling this a kidnapping? From what I saw, you needed rescuing."

"I had it under control."

The soldier's stare is way too long. But Brock bites the inside of his cheek, not willing to let his power be thrown. Uncharacteristically, the brunette chuckles and shakes his head. "Yeah. Sure you were about to get the nurse to fluff your pillow."

"Listen here-"

"Yeah, fine, tough guy, you had it. So sorry you're not in a body bag right now." There's a note of sarcasm to the soldier's tone that he's never heard before, one that makes him look at the other man with curiosity. What had the real Bucky Barnes been like?

Nothing like the media ever said, probably. Old comic books and radio shows had treated him like some scrappy, rascally sidekick. With the resurgence of interest due to Captain America being found frozen in the Arctic, everyone had wanted to know absolutely everything about every aspect of Rogers' life. 

It's easy for Brock, he got the Smithsonian exhibit, the Daily Enquirers, and all the HYDRA files. Even so, none of those really painted a picture of what kind of a man that James Buchanan Barnes was. Loyal, definitely. Tactical and smart. Someone who could follow orders. But other than that? A prankster? A ladies man? What had he wanted to do with his life after the war?

No one would ever know.That life had died a long time ago.

Brock can only hope that Bucky is an honorable enough man that he won't rip him apart for his sins before he gets his strength back.

The soldier turns, rummaging around through the cabinets, and Brock for the first time gets to take the cabin in. It's not too large, Although it accommodates the queen sized bed he's laying on rather nicely. The covers are soft and warm, clearly luxurious and the best that money can buy, even in their faux Native American print. There's a table and chairs, a kitchenette, a stone fireplace and a small couch. He takes in the sight of the hunting rifle on the wall, the moose head hanging above the fireplace. There's even a bearskin on the floor.

"They're not real, you know." The asset comes back over to him, a tray in his hands. For a moment, the whole scene, the soldier in flannel and jeans, holding a tray of steaming mugs in the rustic little hunting cabin is almost too much. 

It must be evident, because Barnes comes closer, sets the tray to the side of him, and he can see the contents of the mugs.

"Are you okay?" Barnes whispers, but Brock has zoned in on the steaming cups.

Tea and fucking Chicken Noodle Soup.

It's too much.

Brock laughs.

He laughs so hard he shakes, like he feels like he's going to rattle apart. Just how quickly the entire fucking world has rattled apart, destroyed everything that HYDRA had been so close to accomplishing, all because of Steve fucking Rogers. And now, he's god knew where in a cabin that he really doesn't want to think about who had owned it, and what the previous owner had done in it. If it was the only safe place the soldier knew to go to, then he's sure that there was only one way he could have known how to come here. Only one man with the money and influence. Brock's stomach turns, but even at the same time, he realizes what a hypocrite he is.

Even he fucked the soldier when he had a chance.

"Calm down, you're getting hysterical."

Brock stares in disbelief at the other man, this fucking relic telling him that he's getting hysterical. Is he even for fucking real? Bucky Barnes has probably not gotten to take care of anyone in decades, but is this the same sort of things that he did back when he was 'himself'? Had he ever taken care of Steve Rogers like this? Brock read all of the files; once upon a time Captain America had been a sick weakling. So it isn't hard to imagine that his best friend might have fed him chicken noodle soup and babied the shit out of him. It's all so fucking ridiculous. The thought of a man that had taken a stun baton in an elevator full of armed men and still gotten away. It's hilarious. Brock tries to reach up and wipe tears from his eyes but even that action hurts, and he hisses in pain, laughter dying.

Barnes is more on top of it. He shushes him and goes for his eyes with a handkerchief, blotting at the corners. "Really, what am I going to do with you?" he murmurs and Brock is shocked at the tone, something so condescending and yet so full of care. 

It can't possibly be care for him. The asset is still just following orders. That has to be it.

He has to say something, anything, to stop the brunette from looking at him so tenderly. "This place was Pierce's, huh?" Brock asks, voice quiet and all the asset can do is nod curtly. There is a swift shift in his demeanor, eyes going dark, the lines next to his mouth twitching as if to grimace, but still staying neutral. Years of practice. 

"Used to bring you here a lot?" He questions, and almost instantly wishes that he hadn't, because the light behind the asset's eyes snuffs out, and his shoulders fall. He wonders what the man is thinking about as Bucky's eyes glaze over, but there's still the aura of anger behind his gaze.

"He can't hurt you anymore." Brock states but Bucky just looks coldly at him. 

"Don't fucking patronize me." He mutters. For a moment, Brock is pissed. How dare the asset talk back to him? But then he tries to place himself in the asset's shoes, thinks about all the things that could have been done to him over the years. How horrible it all must've been. He's pretty sure that the asset wasn't even allowed to feed or clothe himself in some situations. When he first been assigned to the asset, Brock had always wondered what it happened to make some someone become so lethal, so deadly, so compliant. 

The asset was only a weapon. 

Now that weapon is trying to feel after decades of suppression.

"Look man," Brock states, honestly trying for once in his life to be empathic with the other man. "I'm just trying to be nice." 

Bucky laughs bitterly. "Yeah, I've seen your version of nice." 

Now Brock's pissed. "Look why the fuck why did you even bring me here? I don't understand you! You could have killed me back in the hospital and you didn't, so what the fuck is the point? Did you just drag me out here to torture me? Pin me to some tree, use me as target practice? If so I wish you'd hurry the fuck up."

The asset's face falls and Brock wonders what the fuck is deal is. After all none of this is anything that he has asked for. But Bucky only whispers slightly. "You should eat your soup." The brunette turns away, and Rumlow's face goes hot.

It only enrages him more; the asset not answering a direct question. Brock grits his teeth and says the control words, a small phrase in Russian that means nothing to him, but has no doubt been used countless times to punish and humiliate the other man.

"Хотите, чтобы ваш чай с лепестками почек или пороха?"

Bucky straightens immediately posture rigid as he reacts to the words. He gives a slightly horrified look at Brock and the other man can't help but smile grimly, power asserted. "Listen you. I don't know what your plans are, but you got to understand one thing: I'm in control here. You're not going to throw any surprises on me, got that?"

The asset nods, a sharp up and down jolt of his head. Brock lets him stand like that, stew a bit, until he says anything else. "Good. Now go get me some fucking whiskey."

The brunette stares at him mouth twitching. For a moment, he worries that it's not going to work, that Bucky Barnes is going to rip him to shreds and he'll never heal and get his revenge or anything. But the asset's eyes flick downwards. "You shouldn't be drinking while you're on that-"

"I don't care what you think, give me some fucking booze, or am I going to have to discipline you?" He warns. They both know that the next words out of Brock's mouth will be: am order that the asset has to follow. Bucky slightly shakes his head, eyes lowering to the floor. He looks like a dog ready to run with his tail between his legs, ready to do anything in order to appease his master yet again.

It makes Brock feel like an awful piece of shit.

Still Bucky complies, grabbing the coat from the door boots clunking against the wooden planks. "It'll take me a while. Don't itch your wounds." He states before sneaking out as the door clasps shut behind him. Brock lets out a breath that he didn't realizing he was holding in.

He wonders if the asset's programming is so ingrained that he'll actually see the brunette man come back, or if he's just going to be left out here to die. All things considered he probably deserves the latter. Brock sighs and closes his eyes allowing himself to fall into fitful dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian: 'Would you like your tea with rosebuds, or gun powder?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, having seen CA:CW, this is not going to be a canon-compliant story. Enjoy!

He's pissed.

He's so fucking angry that he almost doesn't know what to do with the emotion. It's been too long, he's been trained to be cold and unfeeling, to let anything and every sort of badness happen to him with no emotion, but this takes the cake. He can't help but seethe, feelings bubbling up from beneath the surface of his consciousness.

Fucking Rumlow.

Just the thought of the other man is as infuriating as it is hurtful. What the hell is he supposed to do? Shakily, Bucky rakes his flesh hand through his lanky hair, trying to come down from the white hot feeling threatening to erupt out of his veins. It's almost nauseating, just how powerful his anger is. He trudges through the woods, back towards the place that he had abandoned the car. It's a good five mile hike to the gully, plenty of time to think about things. 

It's pretty much the last thing he wants.

Just knowing that Brock would do something so callous as use the control phrase on him makes bile rise in his throat. He hadn't known what to expect. He hadn't even considered this as a possibility. Every day, a little more of Bucky Barnes slipped to the top of his consciousness, but it still meant nothing to him. The asset, the Winter Soldier didn't even feel like he'd had any other life than killing and bloodshed, and the memories seemed like nothing but fairy tales.

He stops a moment to get his bearings, but the thoughts continue.

Why had he come back? What reason even is there to try and help Brock Rumlow, asshole and HYDRA agent?

HYDRA. The evil he and Steve fought so many years ago.

HYDRA. The ones that did this to him.

HYDRA. The ones that would kill him if they got the chance.

His fist splinters a tree, a whole chunk of shards and pulpy pieces smashing out under one flick of his deadly arm. He can see countless faces, people who used and abused him throughout the years, each memory more painful than the last. It's unfair that those memories feel more real that Bucky's. He hates it. But the one person, the only soul in all of his memories that ever treated him nicely was Brock fucking Rumlow. For over twenty years, the man has been a constant in his life. The only man to give him candy bars and stroke his face and let him take showers with him. The only one that cuddled up against him and spooned him in safehouse after shitty hotel room (even though most of those times had been after getting fucked by him).

The asset leans his head against the tree trunk, ignoring the splinters that dig into his forehead.

How can he not love Brock Rumlow.?

It's a fucking joke. A cruel, godless joke, that all of this could happen to a man and he still have to trudge on. It seemed crueler than anything he's ever seen in battle, or in all of his torture. He'd never fallen in love with anyone else.

At least, not that he can remember.

Several minutes pass, and he continues on. He'll get the alcohol. He'll make sure that Brock doesn't feel the need to try the code phrase again.

He'll buy more than enough, just so he can try to drown out all of the voices in his own head.

To stop feeling.

~*~*~*~*

_Washington D.C., 1965_

The soldier stands, unblinking. Pierce sits in a taupe leather wingback chair just a few feet ahead of him, paperwork all over the table.

"You know, I've heard so much about you, it's an honor really." The young man says flashing him a bright smile. The soldier doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. He just looms in the corner like a shadow, something to fear but not really real. Just a trick of the imagination.

"It is best if you do not engage him. He is the most responsive to orders. Any small talk can be confusing for him." Arnim Zola states, small frame managing to take up the modest armchair on the other side of the desk. The asset knows that this is a big day. Alexander Pierce is a very important man, not even thirty and high within the ranks of HYDRA. form the whispers and gossip that gets spoken around him by techs and handlers, it seems that the man was approached in his teens.

Not that it matters.

"So any order, he has to follow it?"

'Of course. The asset has been trained to follow every single order he has been given. The last twenty years he has had nothing but constant supervision and care. There is nothing that this man cannot do."

Pierce watches him, a smirk on his lips. The Winter Soldier dossier is in front of him, full of all sorts of information about the man- the arm, the brainwashing, even in depth procedures from the Russian faction. There's a kill list as well, no names, but dates that very prominent individuals died on. It's impressive.

Slowly, he knocks the folder to the ground, papers fluttering everywhere and Zola's eyes widen. Before he can say anything, the younger man snaps his fingers at the soldier.

"Pick those up."

The asset moves smoothly to the side of the desk, kneeling down to grab every paper and document and stick it back into the manila folder. One would think that he moved seamlessly, but Pierce sees the slight twitch of hesitation when he picks up a photo of a young man in an army uniform.

Who he was before.

But then the folder is back on his desk and the asset is just standing there. Waiting.

Pierce assesses the file. He notes the disarray of the pages, after all, it's not like he told the man to put them in order. Still, the pages are slightly rumpled. The asset has fingers that can disassemble a glock in nothing flat, but can't easily pick up a couple of pieces of paper with that metal hand. It's too delicate a job for him. Each page is rumpled from the pressure of his fingers. "He's heavy handed."

"I assure you, Herr Pierce, he was not trained to file documents and get you coffee." Arnim snorts at his own little joke. "But you should get used to him. You will be seeing a lot of him, I assure you."

The asset can already see the gears in the young man's head turning. But it doesn't matter to him. It's not allowed for it to matter.

He'll do what has to be done.

~*~*~*~*

Hours pass. To the point that Brock starts to wonder if Barnes' warning of it taking awhile has gone from believable to something to worry about. Considering that HYDRA is out there somewhere looking for them, it's not something to take lightly. Couple that with SHIELD and no doubt Steve looking for them. . . well. He didn't think that the asset would let himself be taken, but if he can stop the other man with the control phrase, then the rest of HYDRA sure as hell would be able to. He's not even sure that it's the only control phrase, it's just the one that was given to him.

But without anyone from STRIKE left, would there be anyone who knew enough about the Winter Soldier to be able to stop him?

The longer he waits, the more Brock starts to freak out. Not that anyone would know he's freaking out. But there's certainly nothing else to do, Barnes hadn't even left him a goddamn magazine or anything. More and more his mind keeps wandering back to him. Why would he save him? It was all so ridiculous. Brock was probably the last person still alive that should recieve any sympathy from Barnes. But still, he thinks about all of the affirmations, the crazy idea that the other man had about him actually caring for the soldier.

It wasn't true. Brock didn't give a shit about anyone but himself.

At least, it was the lie that he'd managed to cloak himself in since he was a child. More like, he couldn't afford to care. After everyone in his life, a negligent mother, disinterested school teachers, bullies that he had to become tougher than, the first thing that he'd found in his life that had made any sense was HYDRA, and he's been welcomed in with open arms. It had been too late when he'd realized what he'd signed his soul away to. No friends, definitely no partners. No one that could be traced back to him and obliterated.

No weaknesses.

Over twenty years and it hadn't seemed all that terrible. STRIKE became like family, albeit family that you didn't trust except to watch your back on a mission. Now even they were gone.

That hurt.

But then that's order. He knows where he stands. That pain helps ground him, helps him know what he has to be capable of, and that's not letting anyone in.

Except the asset.

Maybe it was all too easy, knowing that the man had to follow orders, that he'd never tattle unless ordered to. It gave Brock a chance to be loving and kind. Because only behind closed doors with a man who was routinely brainwashed could he ever allow himself that freedom.

Did he care about the other man? Did it matter? It isn't as if love was something that he could afford anyone. Besides, it only led to let downs.

Brock's eyes droop and he sleeps fitfully. His dreams don't make any sense, he's walking through a park hand in hand with Captain America leading the Winter Soldier on a leash. It's a bright sunny day, and there's a lake ahead. Reflected in it, he can see the Triskelion, but when he looks into the sky, the Helicarriers are coming down. Suddenly they're standing chest deep in the middle of the river, even though the river is far deeper than that. Steve's above him, walking on the water like Jesus fucking Christ.

"I just want you to know Brock, this ain't personal." Steve states, voice solemn, and suddenly he's drowning, debris and fire and water all around him. Air is escaping his mouth and he feels cold, so cold as water fills his lungs.

He's going to die.

Except the asset is right there with him.

"This is nothing. I've been through worse." Barnes whispers, voice hissing through the water. "But I'm here."

The brunette leans forward and kisses him, and Brock allows himself to melt into it. He feels warm all over, safe, even with the world crashing down around them.

A warmth that turns to cold on his legs.

Brock's eyes snap open, and his nose turns up at the rank smell of ammonia. He's mad, mad at himself and mad at the asset for taking so fucking long. He's pissed the bed. Never before has he felt this helpless. The bed gets colder, soggier, and he feels ashamed. Almost. 

If the STRIKE team could see him now.

He wants to scream at Barnes, throw shit at him. At least in a hospital, he'd had some fucking dignity. And a bed pan.

Gritting his teeth, he tries to sit up, but pain lances through his body. An undignified yelp escapes his throat and instantly he chides himself for it.

_Order only comes from pain._

He bites his lip hard enough that he tastes a metallic tang on his tongue but manages to sit up in bed. Every inch of him hurts, muscles sore from disuse and skin still mending protest under his movement. By the time he's upright, his body is trembling and sweat is pouring off of him. His lung feel like he's been running a marathon, heart hammering wildly in his chest. But at least he's up. Now for the hard part.

Slowly, he rubs his legs. In a hospital, he'd have those circulation cuffs. But here, he doesn't have shit. He could reprimand the solider for that, for not thinking of working his legs enough to make sure he didn't get any blood clots. He chuckles. The man's a fucking assassin, not an RN. When he thinks his legs might actually hold him up, he sort of scoots and pushes himself to the edge of the bed.

When his feet touch the floor, pain lances through him, and he just sort of crumples, body betraying him.

By the time his body settles, his nose is mashed against the small area rug surrounding the bed, smelling in dust and years gone by. There's a faint whiff of Pierce's cologne and he gags. Brock wonders if there is a hell, if the secretary is watching him, mocking him.

Well, at least he's still alive.

His body is unresponsive, and he manages to turn his head to the side. But his body won't do more. 

What must he look like, injured and piss stained and completely fucking helpless. He wants to scream. Wants to lash out and make someone pay for this injustice.

Instead, he laughs.

Life is a fucking joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TUMBLR!](http://ritsuko-chan.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [TUMBLR!](http://ritsuko-chan.tumblr.com)
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> I have ideas for a continuation, if anyone really likes this. . .


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